


Strategem

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-17 07:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: The King of Vere is about to make a strategic mistake. Fortunately, he can depend on timely assistance from his family.





	Strategem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liesmyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/gifts).



It was not the most obvious solution.

His tutors as a boy, his commanders in what military campaigns had fallen to him, the rulers of Vere that had come before him, had all held one truth of warfare paramount: the forts were their best defence. Even Theomedes, who yearned for Delfeur as a drunkard yearned for a drop of peasant wine, might overextend himself in a long siege, might have to cede ground he had wrested from them earlier in the campaign. 

His brother had a way of seeing his way around problems that Aleron had admired for years. He had been a strength in Aleron’s kingship since the early days, when he had felt half overcome with grief at his mother’s loss, and somehow his brother had seemed to have all the answers. It was the thought that in time Auguste might find half such a bulwark in Laurent that had brought Aleron the only peace he had had since Hennike’s death. 

He was speaking in such a way now, talking of the peasants in Marlas province, already overextended with the keep’s stockpiling in anticipation of the assault, of the fate of the villages that had fallen in the wake of the campaign, of the devastation of the fields of Sanpelier. He spoke of the likely duration of besiegement, having regard to the survey of the strength of the fortifications and what their spies in Akielos had reported. 

Aleron listened to it all, and felt a chill come upon him. It was true, it was all true, but he had been spending late nights staring down at the maps and accomplished only the feeling of wanting to tear his hair out. Already those in the court who were not essential to the conduct of the war or else to the habitual duties of rule, or were not needed to the maintenance of such a keep and its peoples, had been sent south. Aleron might have sent Laurent away too, but his son had had scarce experience of warfare, and it was right that he should know what threat Vere faced. It was not clear to him what he could do for his people, save to win the war by some means or another. Not only were many lives at stake, the lives not only of his troops but also of the local population, but with the spring had come the sowing season.

“Our numbers remain superior, even with the fall of the eastern flank at Sanpelier. There is less to be risked in riding out onto the flat and mounting battle against the Akielon forces than there is in remaining within the walls under an Akielon siege and watching our people massacred from the ramparts.” Regnault spread his hands and paused for effect. Aleron recognised the signs of his brother coming to a conclusion. “If we take the Akielons by surprise, many lives might be spared. We might achieve a quick and definite reversal of the setback at Sanpelier and in so doing force the Akielons to negotiate on reasonable terms.” 

“Reasonable terms,” repeated Chelaut. “It appears that the only terms the Akielons would consider reasonable would be ones ceding Delfeur to their control. Council will recall their treatment of our envoys.” The Council did recall it, that was clear by their faces. None recalled it with the fervour of Chelaut, whose beloved sister’s son had been among the party dispatched. 

“That is why they must suffer a reversal to understand that their hopes to seize our land cannot be fulfilled, Councillor,” said Regnault. “A significant defeat is the only thing that would make Theomedes see that his landlust cannot triumph over Veretian rights.”

Auguste lifted his eyes from the map and said, his voice clear. “Indeed, Uncle, a significant defeat. You speak of taking the Akielons by surprise, but they are camped a mere thousand toises from the our walls, and even less than that from our troops camped below. We cannot hope to ambush them. Even a night attack would be no guarantee of victory. Theomedes and his generals are no green commanders.”

Audin said, “The king of Akielos and his generals have gained their spurs in internal skirmishes. The men from the south who notch their belts at their kills – and what a barbaric practice that is – have notched them only with their own dead, not ours. They keep to their own regimental style of warfare, and anything outside of their own customs might take them by surprise. His Highness is correct that we should be wary of committing the same mistake.”

Aleron’s brother gave a slow nod. His mouth was a regretful line. “Indeed that is so, yet my nephew is right to be wary in turn. How much safer and how much more decisive would it be to strike not in the night, when any commander knows himself to be more vulnerable, but when the guard of our opponents is low. They have sent away our envoys without fair hearing before, but I believe they would be arrogant enough to let us make our representations under current circumstances, if only that they might with greater arrogance insist upon their territorial pretensions being satisfied.”

Auguste frowned, leading forward a little. “That is not honourable. Our forces fight to protect Delfeur, but they fight to continue to live as part of a civilised nation which treats them with honour and maintains their rights. If we are seen to treat enemy forces in this way, how can our people expect us to behave justly towards them?” 

“Nephew, you are very young still. The men know they are Veretian, yes, and are proud to remain so, but they fight most of all to protect their own region and wish to return home in peace. This Council owes it to them to not throw away their lives for ideals that do not suit our circumstances. Akielos did not act honourably towards us when they used your mother’s death as an impetus for their attack. It is incumbent upon us to end the war swiftly on good terms. I believe that such a proposal is our best hope of achieving that. Isn’t that what matters most?”

“Indeed, if it succeeded. Instead, it will doom us to failure and our people to the Akielon yoke.”

The voice was clear; they all turned. 

It was Councillor Jeurre who spoke first. His tone was not unkindly. “This is a meeting of the Council, lad. Whatever you have to say should be laid in a petition on the morn.”

But the man who had spoken had stepped further into the room, into the light. Aleron felt a prick of pain in his chest. He had Hennike’s hair; he had, as he ventured closer, something of the lines of her face that Aleron had only before seen on his younger son. As he had not recognised the voice, he had taken him to be some local villager, not used to court ceremony, whose message had been deemed so urgent as to compel the guards to admit him. Now Aleron saw that his clothes seemed to be very fine, exceeding in quality that worn by most of nobles at court. 

He said, “It worked only for a short time, before a humiliating reversal that took the lives of both the King and Crown Prince Auguste. It lost us the war and it lost us Delfeur. It would have been better to have a dozen Sanpeliers than to have one battle at Marlas.”

“Laurent?” said Auguste in a choked voice.

“This isn’t possible,” said Aleron’s brother. He had leaned forward, his elbow on the table, his hand on his beard as he did in moments requiring deep thought. He had always been good at remembering family alliances and could frequently identify the ancestry of an adolescent newly come to court with ease. No doubt he was trying to fit the newcomer into one line or another, indeed any line but their own. 

Laurent – it had to be Laurent, the change in the face was not so great – said, “Father, please, you cannot allow this. It led to a great misfortune for our country.”

As a child, Aleron had been taught the tales of the first king of Vere, who had been advised against forming an alliance with the family of one of the Artesian governors, by a figure endowed with knowledge of the future such as others held of the past. His tutors had been sceptical; Aleron had become so in turn. He certainly had not devoted much thought to his own kingship requiring such intervention. 

Regnault said, his voice sharp, “By your own words, it made you king. Are we to believe your claims based on your word alone? Aleron, please, this must be some trick. Perhaps this man is an Akielon.” 

“I am Laurent of Vere. I can prove it to any one of you.” He reached for something inside his jacket, not halting in his speech. “Father, when I was five you let me practice writing in your chambers and I spilled the ink on the desk. Auguste used to let me win horse races and it took me until I was nine to realise. Here is the starburst ring my brother holds. See, it is the same, it has the scratch on the back that Father caused when he was sixteen.” 

He handed it over. It did. The weight of it was familiar to Aleron, as was the feeling of the scratch against his thumb, though it had been years since he had last held it in his hand. Auguste had been Laurent’s age, barely bloodied. 

All eyes were on him save Auguste’s. His son was looking at his brother as if there had never been any doubt or dispute about his status, as if he were only inspecting him for signs of injury after an absence. 

For the benefit of the others, Aleron gave a small nod, catching first his brother’s eye and then Herode’s. 

The latter said, “What course of action would you then propose?”

“Please,” said Laurent, “let us talk alone.” He said it to Aleron, but first his gaze moved from his brother to his uncle. 

“That is not wise,” protested Regnault. “This is clearly a matter for the Council.”

Aleron stood. With the terrifying fervour that had come upon him when they had come to tell him of his mother’s death, he felt the responsibility that he had to his country, to his people. This was his son. “We will convene again in due course. For now, leave us.” His tone was definite; they did not protest, not even his brother or his son, who with greater right might have wished to impose upon a family meeting. Laurent himself, who had asked for this, kept his gaze fixed on them as they left. 

They were left alone, Aleron and this son of his, grown beyond his years, and talking of such doom. 

He had always found it harder to connect to Laurent than to Auguste. Auguste had from his early years been the sort of exuberant and active child that Aleron had always found among his friends, and he had gotten into the sort of scrapes possible for a royal child that fit the pattern of Aleron’s own childhood. Besides, Auguste was the child of his youth, for many years his only child, and he had set in many ways the standard against which Aleron, who had few cousins and who was not used to the presence of small children, had been minded to compare others. Laurent, a quiet boy content to play by himself or to let a stablehand lead him for hours around the paddock on his pony, did not fit that standard, which left Aleron perplexed. Still, there had never seemed to be cause for concern: Laurent went along readily enough to all his lessons from swordfighting to history and Aleron’s struggles with relating to him did not seem to be shared by Auguste. 

It was a shock to see him suddenly grown; it was more disturbing still to not be able to trace his growing from the boy he had seen some two hours before. Auguste had grown up at his side; while his mental image of him at sixteen could be little separated from him at seventeen, the face in his memory blurry and the features indistinct, and while at times he had found himself returning from a country progress or some other duties that had called one of them from Arles to find him changed somehow, at no stage had Auguste blossomed into a man Aleron would have had to blink at in confusion and wonder how they had gotten there. 

Now that they were alone, however, Laurent seemed lost in thought. 

Aleron said, “Well?” 

The line of Laurent’s shoulders was tense, but his voice when he spoke was clear, unburdened by either nervousness nor undue firmness. “Auguste died killed by Prince Damianos, you yourself by an arrow.” He broke off with a twitch of his mouth. “Actually, it was a bit more complicated than that, but this is a complicated situation without – anyhow, after the failure of the attack, my uncle treated with the Akielons and handed them Delfeur.”

“Yes, so you’ve said,” said Aleron, who did not wish to dwell on such things as “you yourself died”.

“I got Delfeur back a few years later, but certainly even on provincial grounds, it would be better to avoid the handover altogether. Children were dispatched off into slavery, Alier and Arran much troubled with displaced citizens fleeing from Akielon masters. Even overlooking the obvious deleterious effect on the treasury, our trade suffered; the new kyros of Delpha knew absolutely nothing about cloth.” 

Aleron felt a little as though he was in a Council meeting listening to Audin introduce a point in his usual circuitous manner. He wondered a little what conversations Laurent had been having. “There’s no need to convince me that it would be better for Delfeur to remain in our hands. The problem has always been how that may best be achieved. How did you get it back?”

Laurent said, “That has only partial applicability. The Akielons were having a civil conflict; it was the obvious price and opportunity. I don’t think we can manage to inspire one among them at present in the time that has been allotted to us. But I still believe I could persuade Damianos to conclude a peace on more sensible arrangements, if we could get him away from his father.”

There was some sense in that; it was Theomedes who had sent the envoys away without a hearing, Theomedes who had started the war to begin with. But Aleron had never heard that either of his sons strayed far from the mould of their father. 

“Your advice then is that at this point we can treat with the Akielons in such a way as to save our people? And if we fail, to stick to the forts, as is the usual practice, and to submit ourselves to what might be a long siege?”

Laurent tilted his head a little. The familiarity of the gesture tugged at Aleron’s heart. It was less careful consideration, but an argument advanced in the guise of such. “No Akielon has ever taken a Veretian fort alone. Their methods don’t allow it to be done. I would prefer if it did not come to that, but it’s still a better solution than the one advanced by my uncle.”

Aleron nodded. “You believe that you can convince Damianos to such an extent? Your dealings with him in the past – in the future –” He gave up. “You believe you know him well enough to make sure of it?”

Something flickered over Laurent’s face. He said, “I married him.” 

Married. It was not a welcome idea, especially given what he had claimed to be his brother’s fate. Theomedes was desperate for control over Delpha; if he’d had the opportunity, he would have reached out with his grasping hand for more of Veretian land. Even in Hennike’s lifetime, he had agitated for the interests of Akielon traders in the area in such a way as to ferment disruption. From what Aleron had heard, his son was much the same. It was a frightening thought to think of him in a position to affect Vere so. It was only partial comfort to think that such proximity would have allowed Laurent to learn enough to extend his own reach of influence over Akielos, and in the case of their circumstances, to know what could be used against Damianos to garner his agreement. 

Still, another issue remained. “He treats you tolerably well?” Laurent’s voice had been light, but he was a boy born to the Veretian court. He knew how much had to be concealed. 

Something softened in Laurent’s face. “It’s an agreeable marriage,” he said. “It doesn’t pose problems for me in the usual course of things.” He hesitated. “Certainly the Damianos of this time is not the man I know, but all the same I think he can be brought around, if with greater difficulty and less understanding than I am used to.”

He spoke with an edge of familiarity that placated Aleron somewhat. It sounded as though he kept Damianos on a short chain and away from stirring up revolt and the irredentist policies pursued by his father. He told him so. 

Laurent pursed his mouth. “Certainly I allow him nothing as far as Vere is concerned that he would not concede to me from Akielos. We work well together; it makes for a fine partnership.” A pause. “In the course of which,” Laurent continued, “I made some promises which under the current circumstances appear unhelpful.”

“He will not remember them,” said Aleron. This was not the usual course of events. Commitments were not retrospective; indeed, among states, they were not necessarily binding for long in the forward direction. Before Hennike had died, he had thought the alliance with Kempt strong. 

“I remember them,” said Laurent. He had the same firmness to his mouth he had had in childhood, when he felt strongly about something and had fallen into a dispute with his attendants. He gave a slow blink and, turning his gaze away from Aleron’s for an instant, said, half to himself, “My life for his people, his kingdom as if it were my own. But I would make the same sacrifices of Vere for the sake of avoiding the outcome of this battle.” 

Aleron thought of his own people, handed over to Akielon governance, and all that that would mean. He thought of his son, dead. His position required him to command armies; his skill and age made it necessary he command from within the fray and not from the war tent. Aleron could not spare him that, could not hold him back for his own comfort from all that was required of him. But it was different to know the risk than to be informed that he was sending his son to his death.

He had never paid much thought to soothsayers. His sons he trusted, not so wholeheartedly as to think himself a fool, but in so significant a measure as to be sure of tilting the balance. He felt in some measure the same sentiment towards this man now, and was not so surprised to find that he trusted him, though this Laurent was taller and no longer held that same curl to his fringe that had accompanied his childhood. 

Had Laurent been that child still, Aleron might have pulled him close, knelt down to his level and placed his hands on his shoulders. Instead, he gave him but a nod, and motioned for him to call for the Council to be reassembled. Though final decisions might belong to him as king, still their implementation rested upon the Council. The night ahead of them might well be long; strategy, whether of the battle field or the diplomatic discourse, could not be conducted haphazardly. It was better, therefore, to commence upon it, even with Laurent's clear reluctance to speak at length of Damianos and of his own plans for negotiations. 

For all that, as his Councillors and his son took up their seats again, the weight of kingship did not rest quite as heavily on Aleron as it had since Theomedes had first sent his emissaries north.


End file.
